


river of truth

by supernova_darling



Category: Ender's Game - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernova_darling/pseuds/supernova_darling
Summary: You can't have my happiness. Even if it makes you hate me, you can't have it.—Peter Wiggin is not a psychopath, not really, but he lets his family believe he is. It's easier than telling the truth.
Relationships: Peter Wiggin & Original Male Character(s), Peter Wiggin & Valentine Wiggin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	river of truth

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a year ago for english class. it's pretty mediocre and i wouldn't normally post it but i saw that there's only 146 fics for ender's game and! that's lame! it's a good book! so i figured i'd make it 147.
> 
> i'd also like to say that i don't actually think this is what peter's like. we don't know for sure bc it's not his point of view, but i'd say it's fairly obvious that he's not a good person. i just wanted to try to see things from his perspective. sorry if this feels out of character.
> 
> backdated to when i wrote it, but posted 2/24/20.

When Peter returned, the lights inside his house were off; all except Valentine’s, of course. He imagined her upstairs all by herself, reading a book or writing an article. The thought made him smile.

In the moments it took him to reach the back door, the smile fell from his face. If his parents saw him happy, they’d ask him about it. I don’t want to tell you, Mother, he’d say. But that would only make her worry. He stepped into the dark room, feeling along the wall until he found the light switch and flicked it on. He tried to shut the back door as quietly as he could, but he heard his mother get out of bed nonetheless. He braced himself for the conversation.

“You’re back late,” she said as she walked to the sink.

“I’m sorry. The forest is so peaceful at night. And I wanted to hear the owls.”

She smiled at him and shut off the faucet. “It’s okay. I just want you to be safe.”

“I know,” he said, returning her smile with a false one of his own. “Goodnight, Mother.”

“Goodnight, Peter.”

Valentine was outside his door when he got upstairs. “You’re late,” she stated. “You’ll make Mother worry.”

He gave her a look and went into his room without a word. She always did this when he came back after nightfall. They both knew he had been writing articles on his desk, starting conversations with influential people around the world as Locke. Valentine had been writing as Demosthenes, too; both of them putting on masks and saying words they didn’t believe. Or maybe they did believe them. Peter had made himself Locke because he disagreed with Locke’s politics and thought that would make him write better. But as time went on, he found himself agreeing with what he wrote.

  


When he woke up, Val was standing at the end of his bed. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.” And so they went.

The two of them drifted from the backyard to the forest and finally to the brook that cut through the trees. They discussed the progress they had made and Peter helped Valentine write an article for her newspaper column. Now, she was still writing on her desk while he was taking a break, skipping stones across the water. 

Sometimes, he felt as if they were becoming friends, and that they understood each other. But then he would say something wrong and she would look at him the way she used to, her eyes filled with remorse. And Peter knew that should make him sad, and it did, but mostly he just felt a resigned acceptance for the fact that she would never see him as her brother.

He tossed another rock across the water and almost hit a duck, scaring it into flight. It had not been on purpose; he’d simply gotten lost in his thoughts and wasn’t paying attention. Peter did not turn around. He could feel Valentine’s judging eyes upon his back. It wasn’t intentional, he wanted to say, but knew she would not believe him. And so he kept his mouth shut. 

  


At dinner that evening, Peter’s father was talking about Demosthenes again. “He’s right about the Russians, y’know. They’re dangerous. We have to be prepared for them to attack when the Invasions are over.” Peter watched Valentine across the table, saw how her eyes stayed downcast and her fork hovered over her food. He knew she was disappointed that Father agreed with the articles she wrote. Peter was, too.

Their mother tried to change his mind. “We don’t know for sure that they will start a fight. The Hegemon should try to negotiate with the countries of the Warsaw Pact first.” Both Valentine and Peter were used to this line of conversation, and it always ended the same way, with Father refusing to listen to reason. Not that it mattered to Mother; she would endlessly attempt to persuade him. Peter wished she would give up so they could finish dinner in peace. 

Valentine’s voice cut through the fog of Peter’s thoughts. “Father, wouldn’t you prefer a peace treaty rather than war?”  


“Oh, sweetheart, a peace treaty wouldn’t last,” he responded with a sigh. “Those Russians wouldn’t allow it.” You mean we wouldn’t, Peter thought, but did not say aloud. The conversation drifted off and Peter finished his meal and excused himself.

  


Peter tapped his finger incessantly against the desk, impatient. His history teacher was droning on about the Civil War and Peter didn’t bother to listen, having already taught himself about it. The bell rang and he was out the door, making his way outside after a long day indoors.

“Hey, Peter.” River stood under the willow tree, the place they always met up after school. 

“Hey,” Peter returned, smiling as his friend came to walk with him. “Where to today?”

“It’s sunny, so we could go to the beach? And it’s May, so the orchard is open.” 

Peter smiled at memories of picking apples and plums with his friend. He turned right at the crosswalk.

River smiled, “Orchard it is, then.” 

They spent the rest of the day walking among the trees and eating fruits. At one point River threw a rotten one at Peter’s back.

“Hey!” Peter yelled, turning around and throwing one back. River laughed and they waged war upon each other until the owner came and kicked them out.

They laughed all the way home, Peter trying and failing to wipe the plum stains off his shirt. They parted ways at the intersection and Peter smiled until the corner before his house, where he wiped the smile off his face. It’s my happiness, he thought. You can’t have it. Even if it makes you hate me, you can’t have it.


End file.
